


Normal/Abnormal

by bedlamsbard



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1634333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bedlamsbard/pseuds/bedlamsbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helen gets people hurt, gets people killed, and she gets used to that, gets a little more careful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Normal/Abnormal

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Triciabyrne1978

 

 

The first thing you learn when you start doing this job is that there's always something else out there. Another abnormal, another secret, another mystery, another job - always something else. It's been a long time since Helen even bothered trying to fake normal; there's just no reason to do so, and it's hard enough. Ashley has never had to, of course; this is all she's ever known and her upbringing was unconventional enough that she'd never thought to question it. It's harder for some of the others.

Will isn't the first person she's brought in who knows little or nothing about abnormals. Most have had their lives touched by them one way or another, to varying degrees, but few have had the kind of history that Helen, Ashley, and Henry share. It's harder for them. Some of them can't stand it.

\- -

A century and a half has given her a few pearls of wisdom and the right to distribute them, though she seldom does so.

_You should know who you are, what you are, what you do._

The obvious extension of that is "who you do", but Helen doesn't go there if she can help it.

\- -

First loves are the strongest and truest, some people say. Even though Helen knows what he is, she can't help but look for John out of the corners of her eyes, turning quickly when she thinks she sees him in the middle of a crowd, in the shadows of an alley, at the end of a long hallway. It never is him. Sometimes there's no one there at all.

There comes a point when she stops reaching for her gun whenever she thinks she sees him, and that's probably a bad sign. Once, she follows a shadow down a dark alley, hands free and open at her sides, and calls, "John?" Her voice echoes off the tall brick walls on either side of her.

They come at her in a rush of wings and sharp talons, and Helen nearly loses an eye before she manages to get her hands on her gun.

Afterwards, patching up her bloody face and torn hands, antiseptic stinging her skin, Helen makes herself a promise. She won't follow ghosts again. There's no such thing, after all. There are many secrets in the world - and who knows that better than her? - but her past should lie dormant. It's safer for all involved.

\- -

The truth is that she hasn't gotten to where she is now by being careless. That doesn't mean she's never been careless before, but Helen learned a long time ago that careless gets people killed, especially in her line of work. This isn't just something she's learned from watching other people; it's something she knows from personal experience.

\- -

There was a girl years ago, before Ashley, on a Thai island called Koh Samet. Lyla had been twenty-five and Canadian, an archaeology student on vacation from her school in the states. She'd been sharp-faced and pretty, and her hair had smelled like coconut and she'd tasted like starfruit when Helen kissed her.

There had been a job, too, and Helen had nearly forgotten about that by the time the job caught up to her. The snake-creature had crashed through the door of the flimsy beach-side cabin she'd been renting, spitting poison and hissing as its crest flared wide, and Helen had shoved Lyla off the bed and onto the floor and groped beneath the bed for the gun in her suitcase.

Afterwards, when Helen had been cleaning thick yellow blood off her hands and trying to figure out the best way to pack the abnormal up and take it back to the Sanctuary, Lyla had stared at her like she was a madwoman. "Get away from me," she'd spat when Helen reached for her, meaning to check the cut on the side of the face where she'd hit the floor.

"Who are you?" she'd asked after a few minutes where Helen tried to control her hurt. She'd sounded calmer, at least.

Helen had explained as best she could, hoping that Lyla was one of those people who could take it in stride, and Lyla had, at least, listened.

But she hadn't seen Lyla the next day or any day since, even though she'd told Lyla she had to get back to America.

\- -

There have been others besides Lyla, men and women alike. Helen gets people hurt, gets people killed, and she gets used to that, gets a little more careful. _Has_ to be careful. But there are still people she shares her bed with, shares her skin with, and sometimes people she shares her job and the Sanctuary with. Some of them understand, some of them don't. None of them last.

\- -

There are certain years that she doesn't remember in more than dreams and snatches of image and sound. She knows she was in New Orleans one of those years, and the thick, sticky heat sank into her skin. She remembers the smell of Bourbon Street and the bitter taste of chicory coffee leavened with the overpowering sweetness of beignets, remembers the spill of jazz out the doors of a bar in the Quarter. She remembers that she had blood under her fingernails, and that she couldn't get it out for the longest time.

She also remembers John's familiar hands on her shoulders, cupping the back of her head as she cried, and the way he liked to kiss the corners of her mouth. It's a good memory, or at least, it's the shards of a good memory. But it's _impossible_.

\- -

In her rarer moments, Helen lets her think that at least with John she wouldn't have to try and fake normal. She's getting good at it, at least. She watches the news, browses the Web, reads current books. It lets her pass among the majority of the population without raising more than few eyebrows, and in the States, that tends to be as much for her accent as anything else.

She still draws the eye, but she's a little slower at looking back now. She has her share of one-night hookups, but they're getting fewer and farther between. Too dangerous, because for her, there's no such thing as a night off. The job comes first. 

 


End file.
